Have a go at them for being narcissistic show-offs, social misfits or physical freakshows, but not for being boring. It is we, my friends who are the dullards.
There is no doubt that successful sport broadcasting is dependent on eloquent and expert punditry, but that does not give the BBC the right to turn Ian Wright into a game-show host – nor is it in any way an excuse for Sue Barker.
Harry is always scrunching his face up confrontationally and saying things like: “Don’t you worry about Carter – he’s the best in the business” whenever Adam’s ability is questioned. Except, clearly, he isn’t.
Maybe it is time for the News of the World to dump Shebah Ronay and let me saddle up with the Rossmeister: His uncomplicated enthusiasm would gel seamlessly with my affection for films that don’t star Vin Diesel.
"Why should people go out and pay to see bad movies when they can stay at home and see bad television for nothing?"
The results are gleefully revealed by the compere – an extravagantly beehived Oriental woman, who, without wanting to put too fine a point on it, looks like her previous job involved Gentlemen’s clubs and ping-pong balls.
Should Lorraine Kelly be allowed outside the confines of daytime ITV? Perhaps she should be banished to a nice comfy cell, disguised for her own benefit as a GMTV set, and allowed to witter away with Dr. Hilary Jones and Russell Grant to her heart’s content twenty-four hours a day. Frankly, I’m not sure she would even notice.
Obviously narrator David Attenborough has ditched the khaki trousers these days, but he is entitled to his autumn in the edit suite – after all, he is about 97 now.
It’s Day Seven, and it’s all kicking off for Jack in the most explosive series of 24 yet.
To me, the message has never been clearer: If you wanted to hang around with Jesus and tool about in the desert witnessing miracles and spreading the Word, you’d better have a decent beard.
The TV talent show is history. So what the hell is Amanda Holden going to do now?
Celebrity impressions show leaves vast audience begging for mercy (or at the very least Robson Green...)